


A Dance of Dragons

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragon Castiel, M/M, Soul Bond, tw: blood drinking in chapter 5, tw: r-slur in first chapter one use only, tw: ritual bloodletting in chapter 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-29 16:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8497666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tired of the endless bloodshed, Castiel, a dragon, decides he's going to bridge the gap and take a human mate. If he can prove the two species don't have to be enemies, maybe they can all live in peace. But when he takes Dean Winchester as his mate, he gets a lot more than he bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first fanfic on this website!
> 
>  
> 
> **Edit 9/11/2016 **It was brought to my attention that I had forgotten to tag for the use of the r-slur. I apologise for any offense it may have caused anyone, as it was 100% unintentional. If you would like to skip over the use of this slur, please skip the first sentence after the first paragraph line (I think that's what it's called). Once again, I am sorry for this oversight.****
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **And if you wish for something else to be added, please let me know.**  
>  **

“Remember,” says John, as he hands Dean his broadsword that’s tucked away in a plain leather sheath, “don’t get caught up watching their legs. As soon as they see you’re distracted, they’ll roast you.”

“I know,” says Dean solemnly. He ties the sheath around his belt, comforted by the weight of it. “I won’t forget. I won’t screw this up.”

“I know you won’t.” John claps Dean on the shoulder. “You’ve trained hard for this day. With any luck, you’ll get your first kill tonight and become a man.”

Dean rolls his shoulders back and stands at his fullest height, jutting his chin out proudly. Oh, he’ll become a man alright. He won’t disappoint his father on his first ever hunt. He’ll either get the kill or assist in its death.

Either way, he comes back a hero.

“Just … both of you come back, okay?” Sam clutches his book as if for dear life, the skin over his knuckles entirely white. “Don’t die.”

He refuses to come closer, possibly intimidated by the vast array of weapons John’s laid out on the table as a last minute lesson for Dean: swords, spears, all coated with Kazhakr—eternal ice, which is the only known substance that can kill the beasts infesting in the woods beyond the city. Pierce through their hard scales and get Kazhakr into their bloodstream, their blood turns to ice and they freeze to death.

John offers Sam a small smile over his shoulder. “Nobody’s gonna die, Sammy. Nobody other than those bastards out there.”

“If you say so,” Sam mumbles apprehensively.

John opens his mouth to say something else, but a thump on the door distracts him (and makes Sam jump). “What is it?”

The door squeals at it swings open.

“We gotta go,” says Bobby gruffly, a crossbow slung over his shoulders. He grabs the brim of his cap and tugs it down lower over his eyes. “The damn thing’s been sighted a kilometre from the city gates. Pack ya shit fast.”

“Take Dean and go on ahead,” says John. He snatches a duffel bag from the ground and starts loading his weapons into it. “I’ll catch you up in a sec.”

Bobby nods at John then gestures impatiently at Dean and says, “Well hurry up, boy, we ain’t got all night.”

“See ya later, Sammy,” says Dean, ruffling Sam’s hair as he walks past. He smirks when Sam squawks indignantly. “Don’t get too bored while I’m gone.”

He doesn’t stay long enough to hear Sam’s reply.

For an old man, Bobby runs fast. Dean’s hard-pressed to keep up with him without showing how winded he’s getting. They’re quick to pass out of the city, the well-wishes of the guards following them out, and down the sloping dirt hill into the woods.

It takes a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the near pitch-darkness. They spend that time regaining control of their breathing. From here on out they have to be quieter than mice. The slightest mistake can prove fatal.

Dean knows better than to ask for torches; the flames will attract the beast’s attention a mile off and lead it straight to them. They’d be entirely blindsided by the thing and unable to defend themselves before it’s too late.

There’s already a few hunters out here, circling around the outskirts of the forest to the beast’s location so they can attack it from every angle. All of them relies on the weak light cast from the crescent moon high above their heads.

“Which way?” he asks.

Bobby’s eyes flit around through the dense trees, then he veers off left with a hushed, “Follow me, kid—and watch your step.”

For what feels like hours, Dean trails along behind Bobby, careful about where he puts his feet. Wound tighter than a coiled spring, Dean’s on high alert, ready for anything. But he also may be sick at some point if he’s not careful.

They hear the beast long before they see it. Bobby reckons they’re still an hour away from its location, but when it roars Dean swears up and down that it’s right behind them. His skin tingles and his hand goes for his sword, but a sharp look from Bobby persuades him against drawing it.

 _If we can hear it, it can probably hear us if we’re too loud,_ Dean realises, lowering his hand. He nods at Bobby’s approving look. _We don’t know enough about dragon physiology beyond the obvious to make reckless judgement calls._

“Sorry, Bobby,” he whispers.

“Everyone makes that mistake their first go around,” Bobby replies. Dean has to strain to hear him over the continuous roaring. “Don’t beat yourself up too much.”

They press onward.

 

* * *

 

This dragon must be of the retarded sort, Dean thinks. Because it won’t shut up, hunters have surrounded it on all sides and are signalling their plans of attack to one another. The thing hardly seems to notice or care.

The dragon is fully-grown: sixteen feet in length, twenty feet in height. Its scales and wings are midnight blue. From the top of its head to the tip of its tail are bone-white spikes that look sharper than any blade Dean’s ever seen.

Something moves in Dean’s peripheral vision and he looks to his left. About twenty feet away is John who’s just arriving. He already has his twin blades out and ready. As if sensing eyes on him, he looks over at Dean and gives him a solemn nod before returning his gaze to the dragon. Dean feels slightly calmer now that John’s here.

Rufus stands directly across the clearing from Dean and Bobby, hidden behind shrubbery. He hefts his crossbow up and takes aim. Dean carefully slides his sword from its sheath, gripping it tight. Once Rufus makes his move, they’re all in.

But as soon as Rufus fires an arrow, the dragon moves. For such a huge monster, it’s surprisingly agile. It leaps into the air and spins so that its back is to Rufus; its tail sweeps out and knocks the arrow sideways, embedding it deep into a tree. Rufus has to leap back, crying out in alarm, to avoid being hit.

“Come on, boy!” Bobby shouts, and races in.

Swallowing back his sudden apprehension, Dean follows.

It’s a bloodbath.

The dragon isn’t stupid like Dean originally thought: it knew exactly what it was doing, and lured them all in, giving them a false sense of security that they’re now paying for. They thought it was gonna be an easy hunt, and they were all dead wrong.

It deflects almost every hit, and what it can’t deflect with a swipe of its tail or a jerk of its head and wings, its hard scales protect it. It won’t rock back on its haunches and reveal its underbelly—its only true weak spot—as other dragons have done in the past.

Ronald Reznik, a relatively new hunter (only been around a month, after desperately seeking someone patient enough to train him) stabs the dragon uselessly in the side just below its spinal horns where its scales are the toughest. The blade naturally doesn’t pierce through, but the dragon, quicker than a blink, whips around and seizes Ronald around the middle. He screams in terror and excruciating pain.

“Help me!” he shrieks. “ _Help m_ —!”

With one vicious chomp and a shake of its head, the dragon kills him, popping him like a balloon. Three pieces of Ronald’s body flies off in different directions when the dragon arches its neck and spits him out.

 _Oh my fucking god,_ Dean thinks numbly. His face is wet with blood. The dragon roars and fear shoots white-hot down Dean’s spine. _It just … it just ripped him apart._

All the stories of dragon hunts Dean’s heard over the years had not prepared him for the reality of the horrors he’s now bearing witness to.

“Retreat for now!” Rufus shouts. “Make a beeline for the trees before the damn thing starts breathin’ fire.”

Dean stumbles backward. He wants to turn around and run, but he doesn’t want to take his eyes off the dragon that’s now hunched and growling at them. Why it isn’t attacking them further is a mystery Dean doesn’t have the time or desire to solve. If it wanted to, it could probably wipe them all out in a matter of seconds.

 _It’s up to something,_ Dean realises. If the dragon’s smart enough to lure the hunters in, it isn’t too much of a stretch to consider that it's plotting something.

“Sixth formation!” John yells. “Don’t give it a chance to strike!”

The other hunters charge in, but Dean hesitates. What’s the sixth formation? What’s he supposed to do?

“Dean!” John shouts. “ _Move_!”

 _Oh right,_ Dean thinks. _I remember now._

Dean’s position is to charge for the underbelly as a back-up in case Victor is taken out, ducking past the dragon’s huge head and fearsome teeth, dodging stamping feet with talons almost as long as his forearm, to pierce the weak spot.

Victor cries out in pain as the dragon seizes in its jaw and tosses him against a tree. He’ll live, but not without his fair share of injuries. The dragon arches its neck and lets out a blood-curdling scream of fury.

Dean lifts his sword but hesitates. He doesn’t want to get anywhere near that thing’s mouth. What if he ends up like Victor—or worse, Ronald?

“Dean!” John yells, slashing and stabbing at the dragon’s side. “What’re you doing? Get movin’, damn it!”

The dragon screams again, then rocks up onto its haunches, finally exposing its belly. It’s deep-set blue eyes are locked straight on Dean. It slams its front paws down on the ground so hard the earth shakes.

Then it charges.

Straight for Dean.

It’s fast—so _fucking fast_. One second it's ten feet away and in the next its right in front of him. It slashes its tail back and forth as it moves, knocking every hunter in its path to the ground as if they weigh little more than a feather.

Dean stumbles back. He trips over a tree root and falls flat on his ass. Oh god, he’s going to die here. “No—no, Dad, _help_!”

“ _Dean_!” John screams.

The dragon cranes its neck back and then lunges, sealing its jaw around Dean’s middle. Teeth dig painfully into Dean’s sides. He feels the intense heat of the dragon’s breath—oh fuck, _oh fuck_ , what if it roasts him? What’s it gonna do to him?

Fuck, he’s gonna die. Who’s gonna tell Sammy? Dean broke his fucking promise; he’s gonna die and it’ll never be okay for Sammy again—

“Dad, help!” Dean shrieks. “Help me, please!”

The dragon spreads its wings, turns, and charges back the way it came. And then suddenly the canopy of the trees flies up to meet them. Wait, what? What’s happening? What’s—

He looks down and immediately has to control the urge to be sick. The dragon is flying, taking Dean along for the ride. Fuck, shit, Dean’s gonna be food. It’s gonna take him away to its fucking cave and then it’ll eat him, and he’ll die, and he’ll never get to see John or Sammy again and they’ll never fully understand what happened to him—

Dean holds his hand out, still begging John to save him even if the ground is rapidly receding, taking John well out of his reach. “ _DAD! HELP ME_!”

“Dean!” he hears John’s faint cry before the howling wind takes even that away from Dean.

 

* * *

 

John falls to his knees in despair as he watches the dragon carry his baby boy away from him, utterly helpless. He wasn’t fast enough, or strong enough, and now Dean’s as good as dead. Tears rise unbidden to his eyes. Releasing his twin blades, he buries his face in his hands.

The other hunters stand in shocked silence. Their numbers hadn’t been enough; with two rookies on hand, there should’ve been more veterans to make up for it. Now those two rookies are either dead or captured, and there’s absolutely nothing they can do.

This hunt failed the moment they all walked into the forest.

John should’ve known Dean wasn’t ready. Should never have pushed Dean to pretend to be ready. Dean should be at home with Sammy, going bored out of his mind, but otherwise still alive and safe.

What would Mary think? God, she’d be so furious with him if she knew what he’s done. Taking Dean beyond the city to die the same way she had … She’d never forgive him.

“J-John,” says Bobby quietly, his voice laced with grief. “We need to go back to the city before any more of them comes back.”

“Then let them,” John forces out gruffly. “Let them fucking come.”

“We haven’t got the numbers to face them,” Bobby continues. “If we stay here, we’re all dead.”

“ _Then go_!”

“Not until you come with me.”

“Why should I? That’s my son that monster took! You think I can just get up and walk away from this?”

This can’t be it for Dean. John can’t walk away and try to rebuild his life again now that his eldest child is gone. The image of Dean reaching for him is burned into his brain, his retinas, and he’ll forever hear Dean’s screaming ringing through his ears like a bell.

“If you think sitting there’s gonna help Dean any, then by all means stay, you stupid ass.” Bobby’s eyes flash with anger and unshed tears. “You think he’d want you to stay out here and die? Get a grip on yourself! Sam needs you now.”

The other hunters drag themselves out of the clearing, nursing their injuries. Victor’s supported by Rufus and Gordon, biting his lip to keep his agony internalised. Gingerly, John gets to his feet.

“Fine,” he mutters.

“Good,” says Bobby, inclining his head. “Let’s move out.”

But what Bobby doesn’t know is that a plan is formulating in John’s mind as they walk, staunching his grief and replacing it with rage so white-hot and all-encompassing that it could burn the average human to death from the inside. He’ll have time for grief when his job is done.

He’s going to kill that blue dragon and get his revenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapter!

They fly for what feels like an age.

Dean keeps his eyes shut the entire time. If he can’t see that he’s flying hundreds of feet in the air inside the mouth of a dragon, then he can pretend that it isn’t actually happening. He can pretend he’s back at home with Sam, trying to keep the little shit occupied and happy whilst he, Dean, goes about doing the chores.

Yep, that’s all this is. Nothing to worry about so long as he doesn’t open his eyes.

That plan works until the dragon begins a rapid descent without warning. Dean’s stomach twists into knots and his eyes flare open in shock. The world whooshes around him. The canopy of trees steadily gets lower and lower.

Dean had stopped fighting the dragon roughly half an hour after it took him. There’s something about being thousands of feet up in the air that deters you from forcing the only thing keeping you from plunging to your death to let go of you.

The dragon stops at a large outcropping on the side of a nearby cliff and spits Dean onto it, before it lands. The rock trembles beneath the dragon’s immense weight and Dean’s terrified it’s going to give way.  

Dean’s fingers flex around something solid and he looks down, surprised to see that he’s still holding his sword. His arms and legs had gone numb shortly after the dragon took him, and his mind had been otherwise too preoccupied to remember that he still had a weapon.

Dean’s fury floods through him like a tidal wave. He hefts his sword and lunges forward, intent on stabbing the dragon anywhere he can reach.

“You son of a bitch!” he snarls. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

The dragon shakes out a wing and knocks Dean to the ground, snuffling derisively. It snatches the sword out of Dean’s hand (almost wrenching his arm out of the socket in the process) with its teeth and throws it off the cliff.

“What’re you waiting for, then?” Dean holds his arms out. “Kill me if you’re gonna kill me!” _Not like I can stop you now._

Bright orange light encircles the dragon from the top of its head right to its tail. can’t believe what he’s seeing; the dragon _shrinks_ , like the growth of a tree played in reverse. Midway, the light gets too bright and Dean has to shield his eyes to protect them.

“Tell me,” says a voice. “If you do manage to kill me, how will you get down?”

“What?” Dean demands, blinking rapidly. “Who’s there?”

“Why don’t you have a look for yourself?”

Hesitantly, Dean opens his eyes. What he sees leaves him stunned speechless; a man stands in the dragon’s place. He’s tall, roughly Dean’s height. Although strongly built, he’s still slimmer than Dean. He has a shock of inky black hair and bright blue eyes. What convinces Dean that this man is the dragon is the trail of midnight blue scales that wraps around his body like a snake. 

“How—how did you—?”

“Transform?” asks the man. His voice is surprisingly deep and guttural. “You would have known that we’re able to transform if you stopped killing us.”

Dean’s vision whites out in rage. “Don’t stand there getting all high and mighty with me. Last I checked, you and your scaly pals _eat_ humans! Think we’re just gonna stand around and be your food source without putting up a fight?”

The man’s eyes narrow. “I could get into a strongly-worded debate with you about this, but that isn’t the reason why I brought you here.”

“What?” Dean scoffs. “So you’re _not_ gonna eat me?”

“Keep up that attitude and I just might.”

Dean folds his arms over his chest, feigning the confidence he doesn’t feel. “Then what’d you bring me here for, if you’re not gonna eat me?”

The man ponders over his words for a few seconds, blinking up at the sky. “To make a deal with you—or, to put it in better terms, come to a truce.”

“A _truce_?”

“I believe you understand the meaning of the word ‘truce’, do you not?”

“Of course I do!” Dean snaps, face burning. “What I can’t understand is why you would want to make one with me. I’m a human, after all.”

“Because I am tired of the endless bloodshed. I have lost many of my brethren to your kind. However, I am also aware that the same is true in reverse.”

“You expect me to believe you’re _tired_ of bloodshed? You ripped Ronald apart!”

“Ronald?” The man tilts his head, brows furrowing. “I’m assuming that was the one who tried to stab me in the side?”

“Yeah, that’s him. I think it’s kinda suss that you’re standing here talking about how much you apparently hate all this death, yet you murdered him.”

“He would have killed me—in fact, you all would have. I may be sick of it, but I am not above killing others to protect my own life.” The man’s eyes bore into Dean as if trying to burn a hole through him. “Judging from the way you reacted when I set you down on this rock, you’re not in any position to judge me.”

Dean clenches his jaw. He can’t argue with that.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands instead.

“Castiel,” the man replies. “And your name?”

Dean hesitates for half a second, then stammers, “D-Dean.”

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs thoughtfully, as if he’s testing the weight and shape of the name on his tongue. “It’s nice to meet you, Dean. I wish we’d met under better circumstances. However, needs must.”

“Whoa, whoa, what about negotiations? What are the rules of this truce? ‘Sides, I’m not from a family with a lot of influence; I’m just some hunter’s kid.”

“If I can first change the minds of my brethren—teach them that we can learn from humans instead of killing them, as you’re not our only or our primary source of food—we may be able to, in turn, change the minds of humanity. The first step toward change must be taken by the biggest predator. Your background does not matter to me.”

“But what would I have to do?” Dean asks. “What part am I supposed to play in this?”

Castiel kneels on his left knee and plants his right elbow on the other. When he meets Dean’s eyes, his own are so steely they’re like chips of ice, freezing Dean in place.

“What part do you have to play in this, you ask?” Castiel whispers, solemn. “Why, Dean, you’re going to be my mate.”

 

* * *

 

John stands outside his house, his heart hammering in his chest. He’s done a lot of hard things in his life, but none of them compare to opening the door to where Sam awaits his and Dean’s return. None of them compare to having to tell Sam that Dean is dead and that they broke the promise they made to him.

But as it turns out, John didn’t have to say a word; one step inside that house, alone, and Sammy knew.

“You promised!” Sam shouts, launching himself at John, slamming his hands against John’s chest. “You promised he’d okay. You promised, you promised, you _promised_!”

John takes the hits and hopes they bruise him. It’s nothing less than he deserves. God, what wouldn’t he give to trade places with Dean right now? He clenches his eyes closed, forcing back the vivid images of his son’s brutalised corpse, dragons stripping the meat off his bones with their bloodied teeth.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispers, voice cracking with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

“’ _Sorry_ ’ won’t bring Dean back!”

Sam hits John until he runs out of steam, collapsing to the floor on his knees. His shoulders shake with silent sobs. John wants to kneel beside him and gather him into his arms but knows that Sam would never allow it. But John kneels anyway, keeping his hands to himself.

“What … happened to him?” Sam whispers after a while, sniffling thickly. “Did it—did it e-eat him?”

John swallows around a painful lump in his throat. “N-no … it ate Ronald, but it carried D-Dean off into the night. It happened so fast, there was nothing I could do. When I realised it had him, they were already flying away.”

Except John remembers hesitating; when the dragon turned on Dean, John had a spear poised and ready to throw. Yet when it grabbed Dean, John had hesitated—or been paralysed with horror. One of the two. Either way, he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t done his job to protect his son—

Protect him? If John wanted to protect Dean, he should never have allowed him to go out there tonight. Heck, he should have disabused Dean the notion that he should become a hunter. Yet he’d been blinded with foolish pride when Dean had announced a few years ago that he’d be following in John’s footsteps.

And now Dean is gone, just like Mary now.

“But I swear on my life,” says John in a trembling voice, the words spilling out easily, no need to even think, “that I will avenge Dean. I will kill that dragon—no, all of the dragons, with my own two hands.”

He grabs Sam by the shoulders, giving him a little shake to grab his attention.

“Do you hear me, Sam? I swear it.” John squeezes Sam’s shoulders. “I won’t let those evil bastards take anyone else.”

“Then if you’re going, so am I.” Sam rubs the tears from his eyes, his face set in grim determination. “’M not gonna let them get away with this. I’ll make them all _pay_.”

For a moment, John considers saying no to Sam. What if he ends up getting Sam killed as well? However, he can already tell that there’s no point in trying; Sam’s made up his mind, and he’s as stubborn as John is when he puts his mind to something.

Sam doesn’t have any substantial training when it comes to dragon hunting, but John will just have to teach him as they go, and hope he doesn’t make any mistakes that’ll get one or both of them killed. They’d never avenge Dean that way.

“Fine,” says John. “But be ready. It’s no picnic out there.”

“I don’t care. I’ll make them pay for killing Dean if it’s the last thing I do!”

 

* * *

 

“You idjits oughta be less predictable. I practically have a Winchester Guidebook written at this point.” Bobby’s leaning against the fence nursing an almost empty beer bottle in one hand, and his other hand is playing with the hilt of a sword that’s tied to the belt around his waist. “I prob’bly knew what you was gonna do before you did.”

John draws himself up to his fullest height, a hand twitching for his sword. “So what? You’re gonna try and stop us?”

Bobby gives him a sharp glance over his shoulder, then turns back to watch the sun peek out over the trees in the distance. “I’d be crazy to try. Ain’t nothing scarier than a Winchester on a fool mission.”

“You think going after the dragon that killed Dean is a _fool mission_?”

“With Sam as your only back-up? Hell yeah, I do.” Bobby smiles wryly at Sam’s offended huff. “No offense, Sam, but you’re a novice. Your daddy’d have to pull the weight of two people on his own.”

Sam flinches. “I’m not a liability!”

“Usually, you ain’t. But this is a fight you never been part of, kid.” Bobby takes one last swig of beer then throws the empty bottle aside carelessly. It shatters. “But I never had any intention of letting the two of you go alone. I may be encroaching on your territory a bit here, John, but I consider your boys to be my own too. I want revenge on those bastards almost as much as you do.”

John arches a brow. “Is this your roundabout way of asking permission to come along?”

“Not asking permission. This is my very roundabout way of telling me you ain’t getting rid of me, ‘cause I intend to come along whether you like it or not.”

“We need all the help we can get.” John walks up to Bobby with his hand outstretched. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that he can put his or Sam’s lives in Bobby’s hands and they’ll both be just fine. “You better be ready to leave.”

Bobby takes the offered hand and shakes it firmly. “I was born ready, ya idjit.”


	3. Chapter 3

In hindsight, it had been a terrible idea to act on instinct and punch Castiel across the face. But the sheer enormity of what Castiel was asking of him had wiped all reasonable thought from Dean’s mind.

Dean thinks his reaction was perfectly justifiable, but now Castiel has disappeared, leaving him stranded on the rock with no way to get down.

“Think on your answer for a few hours, Dean,” he’d said. “I will be back later on once you have cooled down.” Then he’d transformed and flown away before Dean could say anything to stop him.

The bastard hadn’t left him anything to drink! Dean’s throat is parched to the point where swallowing causes him pain. How’s he going to last a few hours like this?

Dropping to his knees, he crawls across the outcropping—he doesn’t trust himself to stand without vertigo, as he’s so far up in the air—until he reaches the wall. He turns and leans his back against the rock, grimacing as it digs uncomfortably into his spine, but it’s better than nothing.

He wonders what would happen if he said no to Castiel. Would Castiel kill him, or let him go free? Dean leans more toward the former than the latter. No matter how he looks at it, it’s a lose-lose situation for him.

Become a dragon’s mate? It’s a terrible idea. Terrible, and yet … Dean’s kind of considering it. Still wants to bury his sword in Castiel’s throat for what he’s done tonight, yeah, but he also wants all this bullshit fighting to stop so that he won’t lose the people he loves. In that respect, he understands how Castiel feels.

He tilts his head back until it rests against the rocks, and waits for Castiel to return.

 

* * *

 

When Castiel does show his scaly face again, he transforms back into a human in mid-air—and Dean’s heart totally doesn’t shoot up into his throat in terror—and drops to the rock on one knee. The blue scales that covers half his face glitter in the moonlight.

“Have you thought about your answer?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

“I’ll tell you,” Dean rasps. His throat is beyond dry now. “But first, I need water, man. Don’t think I’ve ever been so thirsty.”

Castiel blinks. “My apologies. If you climb on my back, I can take you to the nearest lake.” He holds out a hand to help Dean to his feet. “But please do not try to run from me; you won’t be successful.”

“Climb on your back?” Dean asks, brushing dirt off the back of his pants. “You mean like, whilst you’re a dragon? We’re going to _fly_?”

“That is what I mean, yes.”

“I—no way, man.” Dean backs away, holding his hands up. “Not happening.”

“There is no other way to get down from this rock,” Castiel points out. “Plus, flying is faster than walking. I could have you to the lake in mere minutes.”

“Nuh-huh. Not happening.”

“Why not?” Castiel tilts his head in confusion. When he steps forward, Dean takes a hurried step back, and Castiel stops in his tracks. “There is nothing to be afraid of. I have not dropped anyone before. You are perfectly safe with me.”

“No, it’s not that, I just—” Dean sighs explosively, dragging a hand down his face roughly, feeling the skin underneath his eyes shift uncomfortably. “I hate flying! Okay? I don’t like it. Humans aren’t meant to fly.”

“You’re scared.”

“So what if I am?” Dean challenges. Shame twists in his stomach, but he ignores it. His fear is _perfectly valid_! “Got a problem with that?”

“You were fine when I flew you here.”

“Didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter, did I? You kidnapped me. I didn’t want to give you a reason to drop me a thousand feet.”

There’s a pause in which neither of them speak. They stare each other down, locked in a battle of wills that Dean’s determined to win.

“You do realise that there is no other way to get down from here?” says Castiel. “If you try, you will die. If you do not, you’ll die from starvation or thirst. But if you come with me, you’ll have your feet back on solid ground. Which do you prefer?”

Dean wants to hit Castiel again. He clenches his fists at his sides, keeping himself in check. He’d _really_ be screwed if Castiel left him again.

“Fine,” he says through clenched teeth. “But if you drop me, I swear to god—”

“I already told you; I have not dropped anyone since I was old enough to fly unaided. You will be perfectly fine.” Castiel steps back until he stands right on the very edge of the outcropping. “Please keep your distance whilst I transform. My wings sometimes have a mind of their own.”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice; he presses himself against the rocks, making himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. Despite having seen this a fair few times already, Dean can’t help but be intrigued by the way Castiel’s dragon body appears out of seemingly nowhere, swallowing up his human body.

 _Wonder what Dad would’ve done with this information,_ he thinks. He pauses. _Probably would’ve found out a way to kill them between transformations, actually._

Well, that’s only plausible if you can get them to shift forms in front of you. In John’s long hunting career, it’s never happened before. The whole city would’ve heard about it.

Dean quickly understands why Castiel wanted him to stand back; his wings flap wildly out of pure reflex, stretching out from wherever they’ve been stuffed. The membrane stretches taut over the delicate-looking bones, and Dean can’t help staring.

Castiel shifts around cautiously, pulling his wings tight against his back, until he’s standing sideways. He tosses his head back and growls, an air of impatience surrounding him, tail whipping back and forth. Must be an invitation to get on.

Dean approaches as cautiously as possible. Despite Castiel’s assurances that he only wants a peace truce, Dean’s currently going up against a lifetime of instincts screaming at him to run away and never look back, even if there’s nowhere for him to go right now. This is a dangerous creature known to eat humans, and he’s _approaching it_.

Gingerly, he grabs one of the smaller horns at the front and hauls himself up. If he’s causing any pain, Castiel doesn’t show it. After a few seconds of awkward shuffling, Dean notices a hollow at the base of Castiel’s neck, right between the shoulder blades, and carefully sits down in it. His knees are level with his chest, but figures that dragons were not made to be comfortable modes of transportation.

The only real warning Dean gets is when Castiel rocks back on his haunches, wings flaring out. Ask Dean later on and he’ll tell you he was the picture of manliness, never yelled or let his expression crack. Ask Castiel and he’ll tell you Dean screamed.

Dean doesn’t remember most of the ride, having buried his face into the hard scales. His arms ache as he grips Castiel’s neck as tight as possible. He desperately wishes for the stability of the ground beneath his feet.

When Castiel finally touches ground with enough force to make Dean’s teeth clack painfully, Dean slides off of him and lands in an ungainly heap, shivering uncontrollably. It takes a few tries, but he manages to stand and stagger his way over to the lake, where he just manages to catch himself before he falls in.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” says Castiel, a human once more. He’s sitting on the grass, hands locked underneath his bent knees. “Soon, none of this will phase you.”

“I am _not_ doing that again!” Dean says vehemently.

“But if you’re my mate, you’ll have to.” Castiel flinches and leans back as a dragonfly shoots past his face. “We’re both going to have to do things we don’t want to. How else are we going to prove the strength of our bond? We must be a united front.”

“I don’t care what your scaly pals think of our bond, I’m not flying again!” Dean cups his hands in the water, then splashes his face and scrubs away the sweat. “And, you know, you haven’t actually told me anything about this damn bond we’re supposed to have! Think you could give me some straight answers, or are you allergic?”

“I have no allergies that I am aware of.”

“Damn it, Castiel! You know what I mean.” Dean shoves water into his mouth, and shudders in delight as the cold liquid runs down his throat. “Don’t forget that you need my help. If you don’t tell me what you want from me, then I’ll refuse to help.”

“Well, there’s a ritual that we must perform that will link your soul to mine,” says Castiel conversationally, as if that isn’t a big deal at all. “We will be able to telepathically communicate—even when I am in my dragon form.”

“Is that all? I thought there’d be something more—exciting.”

“You will carry my name upon your skin, and I yours. This is not a hunting trip, Dean. A bonding ritual hardly meant to be exciting.” Castiel lies down, pillowing his head on his arms. “We’ll need some time to get used to it, of course. A few weeks at most, I presume. Then we must start preparing for life within the encampment.”

“I’m not staying with your scaly pals right from the get-go?”

“I wish you would stop calling them my ‘scaly pals’, but no, you won’t. That’s for your own safety, mind. My brethren won’t take too kindly to your presence. As we get used to the bonds, our minds and bodies must adjust. If I brought you to the encampment, I wouldn’t be fit enough to help you should anything go wrong.”

Dean flops back against the grass as well. “Don’t try too hard to convince me to do this, Cas. You might lose a few brain cells.”

“Cas?” Castiel questions.

“Castiel is a mouthful,” Dean replies. “If you don’t like it, feel free to bite me.” He pauses. “Wait, no, you actually might.”

“Does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I guess so, yeah.” Dean grits his teeth as the memory of Ronald’s gruesome death resurfaces. “The less people that have to die, the better.”

“Thank you, Dean. And I know that you won’t believe me, but I am sorry about your friend. It was not my intention to kill anyone. Foolishly, I had hoped that I may be able to capture one of you without incurring casualties.”

Dean swallows and closes his eyes, listening to the chirping of birds in the safety of the trees as dawn swiftly approaches. Against his better judgement, he believes Castiel, although it doesn’t take away the misery. He chooses not to respond.

 

* * *

 

When the sun rises, it somehow looks different than it did before. It still crests the horizon, and he still can’t look at it directly unless he wants to go blind. The sun banishes the darkness and its shadows the same way it always does.

And yet, it’s different.

Or maybe _he’s_ different. Last night has changed him irrevocably.

Sam and John thinks he’s dead, dragons can transform into humans, and Dean’s about to become a figurehead for a peace treaty … It’s a lot to take in. Dean feels like he’s aged ten years in the span of one night.

Dean glances over his shoulder at Castiel, who’s still lying back against the grass without a care in the world. His scales start to glitter as the morning sun ascends. Is Castiel a person Dean could grow to like? Can they even make this crazy plan of theirs work?

Truth be told, Dean _wants_ a truce between humans and dragons. He just doesn’t want the responsibility of making it happen to rest on his shoulders. If it all falls apart, half the blame falls on him. Any deaths that follow as a result from a fractured peace treaty will be his fault.

 _But think of all the deaths that have happened already,_ he thinks to himself. _All the people that have died brutally—you could put a stop to that._

But what if he can’t?

“You think too much,” says Castiel, making Dean jump. He’d been so quiet, so serene, that Dean had thought he’d fallen asleep. But now he’s sitting up and stretching, several of his joints popping. “Are you truly worried about what I have asked of you?”

Dean doesn’t respond.

Castiel sighs. “I know in my heart that we can make this work.”

“Do you really?” Dean rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t think I know anything anymore. Too much shit’s changed.” He cuts Castiel a glance, then returns his gaze to the lake. “Do you have any real idea what you’re asking from me?”

“It’s no bigger than what I’m asking of myself.” Castiel puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, a gentle touch that Dean can’t resist leaning into. Despite who the comfort’s coming from, he needs it. “But I must ask something else of you—something I know you will not be able to do right away, as even I am having trouble with it.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean eyes him curiously. “What’s that?”

“Stop thinking of me and you as human and dragon, and start thinking of us as ‘us’. The less we think of our differences, the more united we can become. I do not want to be your enemy, Dean. I can already sense that I will grow to like you a lot. I am an excellent judge of character.”

“Not that you’re boasting,” says Dean with a wry smile.

“Not that I’m boasting,” Castiel agrees. He lets a serene silence drag out between them, before he whispers, “So what do you think?” in a voice so quiet its almost claimed by the wind.

“I’m not promising I’ll get it right away, but …” He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ll try.”

Castiel squeezes his shoulder tight, relief bleeding into his voice. “All I wanted to hear is that you’ll try. Thank you, Dean.”

“Save your thanks for when we kick ass and change the world, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, I have very little impulse control when it comes to posting chapters. When I started writing this fic, it was with the intention of weekly updates. Well, screw that, I'm probably gonna update whenever I finish chapters. Here's hoping nobody minds.

Sam Winchester is not an idiot.

Honest, he’s not. It’s just that he’s no good at this whole ‘camping’ thing. He’s never participated in a hunt, so there was never any reason for it. John and Dean kept him out of that life, and Sam’s always been more than happy to stay out of it.

Camping is something he’s read about, but theoretical knowledge hardly ever translates into practical use. And Sam’s always been rather clumsy with his hands. Ask him to recite something he’s read in a book and he’ll say it word for word, but ask him to build a fire and you’ll sit there for hours watching him rub two sticks together and never achieve so much as a single spark.

John and Bobby do most of the work; setting up tents, making a fire (only after they’d scoured the surrounding area for dragons, come up empty-handed, and set up traps just in case), and cooking the rabbits they’d shot dead and skinned. Meanwhile, Sam sits uselessly on a rotting log, watching them.

He misses Dean with every fibre of his being. He’s lived his life with the knowledge that Dean’s never far away, he’s always coming back, and so the fact that Dean’s never going to come back anymore—that he’s become dinner for a dragon—is hard to compute.

Sam still expects Dean to bound through the trees, a broad smile on his face and a new story to share, each time the foliage is disrupted by the wind or small woodland creatures.

Sam should never have let Dean go on that hunt yesterday. He should have made an excuse—claimed he was sick, broke something important (like the wagon in the backyard) that would be in dire need of fixing—so that Dean could’ve stayed home. Dean would have bitched something fierce about it, but at least he would’ve been alive.

“Sam,” says John, startling Sam out of his thoughts. “Dinner’s ready.”

John’s hardly been able to look at Sam since he came home last night. There’s shame in his words and his body language. Sam can’t bring himself to care. If John had been a little more cautious—if he hadn’t been so eager to take Dean on the hunt…

“Yeah,” says Sam. “Thanks.”

They’ve been tracking the blue dragon as best as they can, but it’s hard. When you’re after a beast that flies, clues are a little hard to come by. It’s already causing tension between both Winchesters.

Sam eats all of his dinner even though the meat is tough and tasteless.

“I’ll take first watch,” says Bobby. He’s been quiet for the past six or so hours, so it’s a surprise to hear his voice.

John grunts, sucking the gristle off a bone. Sam struck with such an intense wave of disgust that he can’t even look at the man.

“I’m gonna turn in early,” he mutters. “Thank you for the food.”

“Sam,” says John. His firm tone makes Sam pause, but he doesn’t turn back. “Tomorrow, I’m going to teach you how to fight.”

Sam arches his brows in surprise. Out of all the things he expected John to say, that was on the bottom of the list—if it had made it on there at all.

“ _Really_?” he asks.

“You sure that’s a good idea, John?” Bobby asks.

“If he’s gonna be hunting with us, he needs to know how to defend himself,” John says over his shoulder. Then he levels Sam with an unwavering stare. “But it’ll be tough; I’ll work you to near exhaustion.”

“Isn’t that a bad thing? What if the dragon comes? I won’t be able to fight it off.”

“Until I think you’re capable of handling yourself, you’re not getting anywhere near a dragon.”

Sam’s jaw drops. “So you’re saying I’m supposed to sit here like some damsel in distress if the dragon that killed Dean shows up again?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“That’s bullshit!” Sam snaps. “I’m gonna make that bastard pay for what it did to Dean. I don’t care what you say; if it shows up, I’m gonna kill it.”

Bobby mutters something under his breath that sounds like “All these damn Winchesters are the fucking same” but Sam and John ignore him.

“I already lost one son,” says John through gritted teeth. “I’m not losing you too.”

Sam seethes. “If you had just done your damn job and protected him, you wouldn’t have lost him; he’d still be alive! We wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation!”

John’s eyes widen with incredulity and hurt.

Sam rips open the flap of the tent and crawls inside, zipping it shut with authority. He wants to break something, but they can’t afford to lose anything in here. He contents himself with climbing in his sleeping bag and sulking until he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Dean,” says Castiel, “I would like to have the bonding ceremony as quickly as possible.”

Dean arches a brow. “Not that I’m complaining, but … why?”

“You may not be aware of this, but you are in dragon territory. Unmated as you are, you carry a scent that will attract all those who are near. Once you have bonded yourself to me, I can make quick work of masking that scent.”

“You see, Cas, this is the kind of thing that you mention to someone immediately. Important life-or-death shit comes first.”

“I apologise. I hadn’t thought of it until now. And it will take a few hours at least to get everything we need.” Castiel heaves a sigh, dragging a hand through his hair in a surprisingly human gesture. “I must return to my nest to get my mortar.”

Dean grabs Castiel by the shoulder just as he’s preparing to shift forms and fly away. “Wait a second,” he says. “Dragons have nests? Like pigeons do?”

“Do not equate us with pests, Dean,” says Castiel sharply. “We are nothing like _pigeons_. But all manner of birds have their versions of nests, I believe. Once dragons become of age, however, we move out of the home nest and into one of our own that we will share with our mates and offspring.”

Grimacing, Dean says, “Please don’t mention offspring, Cas, I really don’t want to think about that.”

“There’s no cause for concern; we are both anatomically male. It is impossible for either one of us to fall pregnant with child.” Castiel steps back, letting Dean’s hand fall off his shoulder. “I trust you’ll be okay for the next hour?”

“Suppose I’ll have to be,” says Dean. “Why can’t you just take me to your nest and perform the ritual there?”

“Because I am not so reckless as to take you to my home before completing the ritual,” says Castiel simply. “Once it is performed, neither of us can hurt the other. I need to take these precautions for my own peace of mind.”

Despite wanting to remind Castiel that they’d more or less promised to trust each other, Dean lets the matter drop. He understands.

“Fine,” he says. “Go. But you better hope no other dragon comes along.”

“There shouldn’t be.”

And on that completely reassuring note, Castiel jogs a fair distance before he transforms and flies away.

 

* * *

 

“This has to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” Dean says roughly an hour and a half later, staring down into the mortar full of a dark green poultice. He has no idea what they’re supposed to do with that, and he’s not keen on finding out. If he has to eat it, he’s backing out of the deal.

When Castiel had come back, Dean spent a while helping him find the necessary ingredients—ones that he hadn’t already had in his nest—to complete the ritual. Never before has he ever had to comb through the forest looking for weirdly-named plants, and he hopes he never has to again.

“The _second_ dumbest thing you’ve ever done, you mean,” corrects Castiel, grinding the poultice further with the pestle.

Dean frowns at him, coming out of his reverie. “Then what’s the first one?”

“Attacking me.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean pushes Castiel. “Dumbass.” He only registers what he’s done when Castiel glares at him again, pursing his lips. Clearing his throat, Dean says cockily, “What? Don’t like being pushed? What’re you gonna do about it?”

Dropping the pestle into the mortar, Castiel makes a show of putting it down slowly and dusting off his hands. Then, quicker than a flash, he shoves Dean back. Caught off-guard, Dean goes sprawling, his face bright red as he heard Castiel laugh at him.

“Hey! Don’t push me!”

Castiel jabs a finger at Dean indignantly. “ _You_ pushed _me_ first!”

“You pushed me first,” Dean imitates sarcastically. “What’re you, a _child_?”

“Keep pushing your luck, Winchester, and you’ll find yourself thousands of feet in the air. And then what will you do?”

It’s an empty threat—Castiel’s teasing tone says as much—but Dean shudders at the thought of his feet leaving the ground. He decides to let the matter drop, determined not to push his luck.

“So when will this stupid thing he done?” he asks, gesturing to the mortar. “Actually, what did you say it was for?”

“For the bond ceremony,” Castiel replies with a long-suffering sigh, glaring up at Dean through his eyelashes. “I told you four times already, Dean.”

“You never told me what it does, though!”

“It’s magic—or it will be, once I’m finished with it. All dragons have the ability to use magic in some small way, and one of them is bonding ceremonies. If I make it right—and I’m pretty sure I am—then by the time we spread this over our faces and chant the ritual, our minds and bodies will connect.”

“So we have to wear it, huh?”

Castiel’s lips curl into a smile. “Better than eating it.”

“Right on.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Once more!” John shouts, pushing Sam back. “Come on, I know you have more strength than this, Sam. Do it again!”

Sam rubs sweat off his forehead, biting back a vicious retort; last time he’d let his tongue loosen on his opinions, John had whacked him upside the head so hard he saw stars. Instead, he puts his anger coursing into his limbs to strengthen them, and attacks again. Once more, John deflects Sam’s kick and shoves him back. They’ve been at this for well over an hour and Sam’s barely gotten close enough to hit him.

Bobby’s out patrolling the area for now, so there’s no one to convince John that they need a break. When John said he was going to train Sam up, Sam had foolishly thought that training would start later than nine hours after they lost Dean and went on this hunt. He wishes one of his kicks would land, just so that he could have the satisfaction of hitting John like he’d always wanted.

John whacks him across the back of the head. “Snap out of it! You gonna daydream in the middle of a fight, Sam? Huh? Gonna let a dragon take your head off?”

“I doubt kicking it would make much of a difference!” Sam shouts back. “If that worked, Dean would still be here.”

John hits him again, but his face has grown notably ashen. “Don’t you talk back to me, Sammy! _Keep kicking_!”

Growling in frustration, Sam kicks out at John again. _I’ll make every single one of those dragons pay for what they’ve done to you, Dean,_ he thinks, forcing back the tide of his own emotions. _There won’t be a single one of them alive when I’m done. I swear to you, Dean, you won’t have died in vain._

“Good, Sammy!” says John, when Sam’s foot finally connects with John’s knee. “Do that again, but harder!”

When Bobby returns not long later, John concedes that he and Sam need to take a break, and allows Sam to drop into an exhausted heap.

“You do know why I’m pushing you so hard, Sammy, don’t you?” John asks, kneeling beside Sam and handing him the waterskin. Sam takes it without a word, gulping down the water so fast some of it trickles down his chin. “You need to build muscle tone. You need to be able to move instinctively, without having to think. Soon, I’m going to get you to spar with me. That way, you’ll learn how to move.”

“Is this what you did?” Sam clarifies, “With Dean?”

John nods. His eyes cloud over, undoubtedly remembering his sparring matches with Dean. “He used to hate it almost as much as you do now. In the end, though, he learned that what I was doing was effective. I’m not beating you up for the sheer pleasure of it, Sam—although it does feel good after you run your mouth off at me.” John’s lips quirk in a teasing smile that Sam can’t help returning. “But a mistake on the field cost Dean his life. I need to train you up in the hopes that the same mistake won’t happen twice.”

Sam ducks his head. “I … I get it.”

John slaps Sam on the shoulder. “I knew you would.”

“John,” says Bobby. “We’ve been here for too long already.”

“I know. Give Sam another minute to cool off, then we’ll get going.”

Bobby nods, glancing between the two of them. He mutters something neither Winchester can catch, then walks into the forest and disappears once more.

“Crotchety old bastard,” John says fondly.

Carefully, Sam stands up, handing the waterskin to John. “I’m fine now. We can get going.” He’s not going to hinder them any more than he absolutely has to. He can ignore the clenching ache in his calves for the time being.

“If you’re sure,” says John warily. Sam nods his head, rubbing the last of the sweat away. “Alright, come on then.”

As John walks away, Sam looks back at their dismantled campsite and sighs, wondering what Dean would’ve been doing had he been here with them. He wishes, not for the first time today, that his introduction to the world of hunting hadn’t been at his brother’s expense. Maybe they could have had a lot of fun together, hunting dragons.

“Sammy, hurry up!” John calls, already several paces ahead.

Rubbing his eyes furiously, Sam jogs to catch up with them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks/subscriptions! I'm so happy you're all enjoying my story!

“Näza ar ma ghou en äk a ra,” says Dean, concentrating heavily on his pronunciation of the dragon tongue, though from Castiel’s critical stare he figures he’s not doing a good job of it. “En lasa our pène.” He clears his throat. “How was that?”

“It sounds as if you are choking, but we must make do with what we’ve got,” says Castiel, sighing. He’s spent the past hour trying to teach Dean, after all. “Let us hope that precise pronunciation isn’t required to make the spell work.”

Dean glares at him. “I’m trying as best as I can!”

“I know you are,” Castiel placates. “I am just worried that the ritual may not take, considering our native tongue is so different from your own.”

Grumbling under his breath, Dean lets the matter drop. He must _really_ sound terrible, then. Castiel had winced every time Dean attempted to roll his ‘r’s. Flopping back against the grass, he asks, “How long ‘til it’s ready?”

“Not long,” says Castiel. “With any luck, just another five minutes.”

Well, if that’s all, then Dean’s gonna stay right where he is and soak up the warmth from the sun. It’s nearing midday already. Where has the time flown? He closes his eyes and lets himself go boneless.

“Dean,” says Castiel’s insistent voice too soon. Dean clenches his eyes tighter, turns his head to the side, and lets out a protesting moan. Why can’t this bastard just him relax for one goddamn minute? “Dean, it’s ready. Time to wake up.”

Dean opens his eyes, squinting at the onslaught of bright midday light. Had he fallen asleep? When he shoots Castiel a questioning look, he gets a nod in return.

“You were out like a candle flame,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, well, I had a long night,” Dean mumbles.

Castiel averts his eyes and says nothing. He stands and goes back to the mortar.

“You said it’s done?” Dean pushes himself up on his knees, turning until he faces Castiel, then crawls the short distance between them. “What do we have to do with it?”

“We need to spread it on each other’s faces—not smear it, Dean.” Castiel quickly pulls the mortar back as Dean shrugs and tries to stick his fingers in. “Just watch how I do it, okay?” He glances around, searching for something, and then his eyes fall on a small stick nearby and he snatches it up. “You have to draw it exactly as I do.”

Dean rolls his eyes impatiently, throwing up his hands. “Okay, okay, just draw the damn thing!”

He watches closely as Castiel draws a pattern in the dirt with a deft hand. To him, they look like swirls with two squiggly lines drawn through it. Except, apparently that’s for both cheeks; what’s supposed to be for the forehead is the word “KHÄVEKSHA”.

“It means ‘mate’,” Castiel explains. “Once you’ve spoken the ritual, it will set into your skin. Don’t worry, nobody will be able to see them unless you want them to,” he adds, catching Dean’s apprehensive look. “Well, actually, they’ll fade after a few days.”

“Is that all we have to do?” Dean asks, hoping that Castiel won’t wipe the drawings from the dirt, as he’s not all that certain he’s going to remember it all.

Castiel hesitates. “Well … no, not really.”

Dean’s hackles immediately rise. “What do you mean ‘not really’?”

“We must offer each other the blood of our hearts.” Castiel worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “This is the part I figured you’d have the biggest problem with.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“And when were you going to mention this to me, Cas?” Dean growls. “Right in the middle of the ritual, when I can’t back out?”

Castiel averts his eyes again.

“Fuckin’ hell, Cas! No more secrecy!” Dean rubs viciously at his eyes. “So how the hell am I supposed to offer you my heart’s blood?”

As it turns out, they have to cut the skin over their hearts and drink the blood.

“I’m not a damn vampire, Cas! What the hell? That sounds creepy.”

Castiel’s eyes flare angrily. “This is part of my culture, Dean. This is how we do things.” He clenches the stick so hard it breaks in half. “You agreed to mate with me, Dean! Are you really going to let something as inconsequential as this get in the way of the promise you made?”

“Inconsequential? Dude, I am about to drink your _blood_!”

“That’s how dragons mate, Dean!”

“Yeah? Well I notice that we’re doing everything exactly how dragons do them,” says Dean. “May have escaped your notice, but I’m not a dragon!”

“That much has been made very obvious to me these last few hours, Dean. Believe it or not, I noticed the moment your rag-tag group of idiots attacked me!” Castiel shakes his head to get his fringe out of his eyes, and his facial scales catch the sunlight in a way that makes them gleam blindingly.

Dean wants to throttle Castiel, but he balls his hands in his lap. “So if we’re gonna make this peace treaty work,” he continues, as if Castiel hadn’t spoken, “then why are we only doing things _your way_?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do _humans_ have mating rituals?” says Castiel with devastating sarcasm. He looks halfway to attacking Dean, too.

“Technically we do, it’s called _marriage_!”

“Fine! Then once we’ve convinced the dragons to accept the peace treaty, why don’t you just damn well marry me then! That’ll convince the humans!”

“Fine, maybe I fucking _will_ marry you!” _So there!_ is what Dean wants to add, but he sounds childish enough, so he doesn’t.

It only strikes them in the sudden deafening silence exactly what they were arguing about, and how dumb it’d sound to outsiders if there were any around to hear. And when they glance at each other sheepishly, they burst into laughter.

“We’re so stupid,” says Castiel.

“The stupidest,” Dean agrees, sagging.

They allow themselves to laugh themselves to the point of near exhaustion, releasing the tension from the whole day as they do so.

“Can we get this over with now, Cas?” asks Dean tiredly, minutes later.

“You’re okay with drinking my blood?” Castiel asks. “You only need a little bit—possibly a mouthful—and the lake is just over there.”

Dean opts not to point out that ‘a mouthful’ is not a small amount when it comes to drinking blood. He’s too tired to risk another argument breaking out between them.

He nods. “I’m not cool with it, but it has to be done.”

Castiel smiles. “Thank you, Dean.” He hesitates, then adds, “And when we get married, I promise you can take over the whole thing.”

Dean’s lips quirk. “I’ll hold you to that.”

After grinding the poultice up twice more with vicious twists of his wrists, Castiel sits back and says, “There. It’s done.” He gestures for Dean to come closer. Feeling apprehension knot in his stomach, Dean does as he’s told. “I’ll apply it to you first. Please close your eyes. If any of this drips into them, it’ll burn fiercely.”

Dean closes his eyes, then flinches with a gasp when he feels Castiel’s fingers press the cold poultice onto his cheek.

Pausing, Castiel says, “Please stay as still as possible.”

“Sorry.” Dean squares his shoulders and sits up straighter, determined not to move an inch until Castiel is finished. “How come you’re not saying anything?”

“That’s at the end,” says Castiel absently. “We say it together.”

“Oh.”

After twenty seconds, Dean’s face starts to itch as the poultice dries. His hands twitch with the need to scratch it, but he laces his fingers together and keeps his hands on his lap. If he ruins Castiel’s work, he’s screwed.

Castiel paints each line carefully with his index finger and thumb, his tongue steadily working its way between his teeth as he concentrates.

“There,” he says finally, setting down the mortar. He leans back to admire his handiwork, and a shiver runs down Dean’s spine at the intense scrutiny. “Good, that looks perfect.”

Dean picks up the mortar, then looks down at the drawings Castiel made in the dirt. Some of them are smudged. “Could you redraw that?”

After Castiel does as asked, Dean dips his finger into the poultice and, hesitantly, begins to paint. He doesn’t understand how Castiel didn’t feel uncomfortable with having to stare at Dean’s face for so—actually, wait, he’s still staring. Never mind. The dude rarely has to blink, either—and when he does he’s got the creepy third eyelid thing going on—which makes Dean feel all the more unsettled.

He doesn’t know how to tell Castiel to stop staring so he just lets it slide.

“Done,” he says, after a few minutes. He’s triple-checked that he drew them right, though he’s still doubtful. Then he remembers something with a pang of guilt. “But, Cas, I don’t remember what I have to say!” He made Castiel teach him for an entire hour, and he’s forgotten _everything_ already.

Castiel bites his lower lip worriedly, thinking.

“Repeat each word after me,” he says. “I hope it’s acceptable enough.”

He takes Dean’s hands in his own, ignoring the dark, sticky residue on Dean’s fingers, and then begins to speak. Castiel says each word slowly, elongating the vowels, to make it easier for Dean, who feels like he’s stumbling his way through it all.

“…lasa our pène.”

Dean barely gets the last vowel out before it starts. He cries out as a flash of white-hot pain shoots through his face, tracing over the lines Castiel had made on his skin. Castiel makes a similar sound of pain, but tightens his grip on Dean’s hands when Dean tries to pull away from him.

It’s like someone is carving into his face with hot poker. Dean can hardly see for the pain. Yet another thing stupid, dumb Castiel forgot to warn him about!

When it ends, it’s as abrupt as it started. Dean rocks back as the pain vanishes, leaving his skin feeling tight and slightly raw. Pulling his hands free, he touches his fingertips gingerly to his face. The poultice has hardened, needs to be peeled off, which is damn well gross.

“Dean,” says Castiel. He has a knife in his hand, and Dean instinctively tries to shuffle back before he realises what it’s for. “Are you ready?”

“Guess I’ll have to be,” Dean grunts. They can’t just stop in the middle.

Doesn’t stop him from wincing as Castiel presses the blade to the skin over his heart and drags it across. Dumb sonofabitch doesn’t take it easy on the bloodletting, either, allowing his blood to run freely down his chest. He reaches out for Dean, wiggling his fingers insistently, and Dean does as he’s asked.

It tastes disgusting. The overwhelmingly metallic taste makes it difficult for Dean to swallow without wanting to hurl. He forces himself to stay where he is for a good five seconds, drinking Castiel’s blood, and then he pulls off with a disgusted noise, coughing and spluttering.

“Dean, cut yourself open. The quicker you do, the quicker you can wash the taste out,” says Castiel, folding Dean’s fingers around the knife hilt.

It’s surprisingly easy for Dean to cut himself open; he doesn’t even think about it, just drags the knife over his chest and then pushes his shoulders back, presenting himself. It feels weird to have Castiel sucking at the wound, but he’s more preoccupied with the foul taste in his mouth to really take notice.

As soon as Castiel pulls back, Dean’s off like a shot toward the river. He scoops so much water into his mouth he’ll eventually feel it sloshing sickly in his stomach, but for now it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“Are we bonded?” he chokes out minutes later, once he’s had his fill.

“Yes,” says Castiel. “Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?” Realising he still has the gunk on his face, he asks, “Can I wash this off, actually?”

Castiel’s voice erupts in Dean’s mind. _Yes, you can._

Dean jumps so badly he almost falls into the water. “What the hell was that?!” He grasps for his skull. It’s like a tight band has wound around it, squeezing tight. “That hurt, damn it!”

“That was my voice in your head,” says Castiel. He frowns. “Can you not feel the mental link between us now? It’s like a …” He pauses, glancing up at the sky as he searches for words. “Like a warm presence in your head?”

Frowning, Dean closes his eyes and concentrates. Slowly but surely, he feels that warm presence in his mind like Castiel said, and he’s surprised he hadn’t felt it as soon as the bonding ceremony ended. Then again, he’d been preoccupied.

“So if I think hard enough, I can send thoughts to you?” _Dragons are pigeons, dragons are pigeons, dragons are just really big, overstuffed pigeons!_ “Did you hear that?”

Castiel’s winces even as he draws himself up like a ruffled bird in an attempt to intimidate Dean. “Only that last part. I suggest you start sleeping with one eye open, Dean.” He sends an image of them flying thousands of feet in the air through the mental link, smirking when Dean pales. Castiel stands. “But now that we’re bonded, I can finally show you my nest.”

“Just wait a sec, need to wash this shit off.” Dean scrubs viciously at his face until all the gunk comes off. When he pulls back, something catches his attention. “What the hell? It tattooed my face!”

Indeed, there are thick black lines running over his face in the exact same pattern Castiel had painted with the gunk. Dean runs his fingers over his skin, aghast.

“Dean,” says Castiel exasperatedly, “they will fade in a matter of weeks. Then, you can start learning how to show them at will.”

He joins Dean at the river and makes quick work of washing his face too, revealing the same tattoo with an expression that Dean can only describe as being of the ‘See? You’re not the only one’ variety. Dean admires how it even extends over his face scales.

“Come along, then,” says Castiel, standing. “If you won’t fly, then we have a bit of a walk ahead of us before we get to my tree.”

Dean stands and falls into step with Castiel, grateful that he’s not going to make Dean fly the whole way there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I made up the language. If anything resembles actual languages, it's completely coincidental. I'm pretty sure pene is some kind of pasta though. Unless I spelled it differently?


	6. Chapter 6

Dean used to think dragons had lairs. Deep caverns that they ensconced themselves in, buried in the treasures they hoarded. Or maybe even caves, lurking in the shadows where unwary, unlucky travellers would be eaten after wandering inside. If no travellers came, and the dragons grew hungry, then they’d just fly into forests near human cities and wait for their prey to show.

All of his presumption were dead wrong. He hadn’t been expecting _this_.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

The trees are massive around here, Coast Redwoods, and Dean has to crane his head back so far he almost gets a crick in his neck. Even then, he still can’t see the top branches because of all the fog in the way. Never before has he felt so _small_.

“And your nest is in that?” he asks Castiel, pointing up at the trees as if there’s the slightest chance Castiel doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “How the hell am I supposed to get up and down that thing without assistance?”

If he has to ask Castiel to fly him to the ground just to pee every now and again, he’s going to be so pissed off.

Without a word, Castiel walks up to the nearest tree and runs his hands over the bark, searching for something. Before Dean has a chance to ask what he’s doing, Castiel finds what he’s looking for; digging his fingers into the grooves, he pulls hard, and a six-foot section of the tree pulls free, revealing a hollow inside.

“I have been preparing for this for a long time,” Castiel explains, setting the makeshift door against the tree, then gestures for Dean to follow him inside. “I did not want to strip the human I was bonding with from being able to come and go freely.”

Feeling numb, Dean walks like a newborn colt toward the tree. _This must have taken months to do,_ he thinks. He knows that some Redwoods have natural hollows, but this one looks like Castiel did it all himself. This proves to Dean that, without a shadow of a doubt, Castiel meant everything he said about wanting to come to a truce.

_I hope that he likes it._

Dean jumps as Castiel’s voice shoots through his head. Because of its newness, each word they send telepathically to one another feels like the crack of a whip; sharp, jarring, and very painful.

“I do like it, Cas,” he says hoarsely.

Castiel blinks at Dean in shock, before he blushes at the realisation of what he’d done. “I apologise, Dean.”

“When I sent my thoughts to you, did it cause you pain, too?” Dean asks, massaging his temples. “Feel like my freaking head is gonna explode.”

“I, uh, have been told that’s a common side-effect.”

Oh god, not this again. Dean turns to Castiel, folding his arms over his chest. “What have I told you about withholding this shit from me, Cas?”

“Um.” Castiels eyes dart around the forest, as if there might be someone else hiding in the fog that can come out and answer the question for him. “Not to?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just show me what’s inside, bird-brain.”

If Castiel takes offense, Dean doesn’t see; he pushes his way inside—and then stops dead in his tracks. A set of stairs has been carved out of the wood, running up and up in a spiral, until they end abruptly at the landing thirty feet up. From where he stands, he can see the glimmer of candlelight.

“You did all this yourself?” Dean asks Castiel, jaw hanging from the hinges. “This must have taken ages.”

“By my rough estimate, six months.” Castiel’s beaming with pride. “I take it that means you like it?”

“It’s _awesome_ , Cas!”

“Wait until you see the rest of it, then. This is nothing by comparison.”

If Dean gets any more excited, he’s going to explode. Without waiting for further invitation, he darts up the stairs. It’s only halfway up that he regrets acting on his desire to rush when air sears through his chest and his calves ache something fierce. It definitely hadn’t looked like a long climb up when he’d been standing at the bottom, but now it feels insurmountable.

“Didn’t think I—was so—out of—shape,” he gasps, nursing a stitch in his side.

“You will get used to it,” Castiel promises. Damn asshole sounds unruffled—although he’d been the one to build this place, so he must’ve adapted ages ago.

 By the time Dean reaches the landing, he’s using the wall to help heave himself up. Fuck but if that’s not gonna give him one hell of a workout every day. As soon as he’s up the top, he puts his hands on his knees and bends over double, trying to breathe.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, putting a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Dean chokes out. Groaning, he stands upright again. “I was just—oh my god.” His jaw drops. After today, _nothing_ is going to surprise him ever again.

Exhaustion forgotten, Dean takes a few hesitant steps into the middle of the room. It’s all wood—naturally—and pressing down on the right spot means the ground will let out a protesting groan. That’s where its faults seem to end.

They’re standing in a circular room with candle brackets stuck to the walls, candles unlit. What catches Dean’s eye first is the handmade bed in the middle of the room with the most comfortable (possibly stolen) mattress Dean’s ever clapped eyes on.

There’s a bookshelf set into the wall, yet there aren’t many books on it; just barely enough to fill the first shelf. A wooden table with four chairs placed on each side. There’s even a fireplace, although Dean questions the safety of that feature considering they’re in a tree, surrounded by flammable wood.

As he continues surveying the room, he catches sight of an eight-rung ladder that’s set at the far back of the room, so inconspicuous it was almost hidden from sight. Curiously, he approaches it. It leads outside, to somewhere Dean can’t yet see.

“This is for me,” says Castiel, approaching as Dean starts to climb. “For when I wish to spend time in the nest in my dragon form.”

Dean rolls out into an actual nest; made of straw and circular in shape, it’s got to be a hundred feet off the ground, but also thirty feet wide. He wonders momentarily how he hadn’t seen this from the ground, then remembers the fog.

This place is incredible.

“So you mean you don’t sleep as a dragon all the time?” Dean asks Castiel.

Castiel shakes his head. “It takes a lot of energy to shapeshift.” He spreads his arms out, looking down at himself. “This is actually my natural state. If it weren’t for the scales, I would blend in very well with humans.”

“Explains how you got the mattress and the books,” says Dean, with a wry smile. “You must’ve worn some kind of cloak and stolen them.”

“I made sure to steal from those who had the funds to replace it all,” Castiel says defensively. His hands ball into fists at his sides, and he puffs up like an angry bird once more. “It isn’t as if I chose poor families who could never get back what was stolen from them. I am not _heartless_.”

“Of course not.” Dean sits down in the nest, surprised by how comfortable it is. “But this place is awesome, Cas. Must’ve taken you ages.”

 _And that proves just how serious about all this he is; if he kept at it for all this time, he really wants this treaty._ Anyone who had their doubts, who didn’t think it could be done, would’ve given up long before they finished building the place.

Castiel beams, and comes to kneel down beside Dean. “Thank you.”

They stay there for a long while, until Dean struggles to keep his eyes open.

“You are more than welcome to go sleep in the bed, if you wish,” says Castiel. “It has been an incredibly long day.”

An understatement. “Thanks, Cas. I’ll do that.”

Dean won’t remember rolling to his feet, climbing down the ladder, or dropping into bed; what he’ll remember is waking up an indeterminable amount of time later to the smell of Castiel’s cooking.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a week and they still haven’t found a dragon.

Sam’s growing restless. Every damn day John makes him train in preparation—although he’s still gonna be useless in a fight for now—and every damn day Bobby tells him and John to keep a sharp eye out. But there’s _nothing_.

“What, did you think we was gonna find it that easily?” Bobby grunts, after glancing at Sam’s face and accurately reading the frustration there. “Thought we’d find it after a day or two, kill it, then go home, easy as pie?”

“I just wish there was something,” says Sam. He curls his fingers around the small dagger John had given him after their last training session. “The way Dad and Dean told it, this place should be infested with dragons.”

Bobby shoots John a look, but Sam doesn’t turn to see the expression on John’s face.

“It ain’t like that, son,” says Bobby, returning his gaze to Sam. “It’s all about patience. Dragons ain’t gonna just drop out of the sky whenever you want them to. Their viciously smart creatures. If you find ‘em, it’s ‘cause they _wanna_ be found.”

Sam stiffens to hide his shiver of fear. He won’t show that kind of weakness in front of John or Bobby, in case they decide he’s just not ready to hunt. The last thing Sam wants is for them to start protecting him from every little thing. He’s going to get his revenge for Dean, and he won’t let anything or anyone stop him.

A twig snaps just off to his left.

Quicker than a flash, John has his Kazhakr out from its sheath on his belt. “Who’s there?” he calls out. “Show yourself!”

When no one answers, John stomps toward the source of the sound, and he’s hidden momentarily by two trees. Then he returns, hauling a scrawny-looking man behind him, holding a crossbow in trembling hands.

“Don’t stab me!” the man whimpers, when John throws him to the ground and levels his sword at the man’s chest. “Don’t stab me!”

“Way to go, Chuck,” someone snarls, their voice at Sam’s right. “You gave us away!”

Sam pulls his dagger out, noticing Bobby aiming his own crossbow at the source of the new voice.

“If you don’t want me to run your little friend through,” John growls, “I suggest you show yourselves. And don’t even think about trying anything funny.”

Two girls and one other guy step out from their hiding places, weapons lowered.

“What’re you doing in our woods?” the shorter girl demands. She and the other girl have the same blonde hair, but they couldn’t look any more different. Not related, then.

“ _Your_ woods?” Bobby scoffs.

“Yeah, our woods!” the girl shouts. “This is where our clan hunts!”

“Claire, please,” says the other girl, putting a hand on her shoulder. Claire shoots the girl a glare, but it goes unnoticed. “This is the Bourai clan’s usual hunting area. It’s rare to see outsiders make it this far in.”

“Jessica, don’t tell them who we are!” Claire reprimands her.

“Too late,” says Bobby wryly. “We know three out of four of your names, as well as your so-called clan.” He turns to the unnamed boy standing awkwardly by Claire’s side, holding a regular sword. “Wanna tell us who you are?”

The boy stares at him for a moment, then mutters, “Kevin. My name is Kevin.”

“D-don’t kill us!” Chuck whimpers.

“You all’re a bunch of teenagers,” says Bobby. “We ain’t gonna kill you.”

“This one isn’t a teenager,” says John, flicking his sword at Chuck, who flinches away from it. “Gotta be near his thirties, from the look of him.”

“If you kill him, our clan leader will have your head,” says Claire, smirking. “And she doesn’t take too kindly to outsiders killing one of her own.”

“I’d like to see this clan leader of yours, as a matter of fact,” says John. He lowers his sword, then bends down and hauls Chuck to his feet. “Take us to her.”

Claire’s jaw drops. “We’re not just gonna—”

“Fine,” says Kevin. “Follow us, then.”

He walks away from them, leaving Claire to stare incredulously at his back. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Jessica follows. Claire has no choice but to follow.

“And don’t try any funny business,” says Bobby, “or I’ll shoot ya. Sam, take this idjit’s crossbow.”

Sam does as he’s told. He’s never shot one of these before, but he mimics Bobby’s grip, hoping he at least looks like he knows what he’s doing.

“Get moving.” John shoves Chuck into motion.

And so Sam, John and Bobby follow the small group to their clan-site, wondering what they’re going to find when they get there.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I've had a busy couple of weeks and couldn't even think about writing during that time, I was just way too tired. But now that I feel back to normal, hopefully updates will come more consistently. And I thought I'd finish this tomorrow night, but yay I finished it today, so here you go.

“What have I told you about sneaking off on your own?!” Linda Tran snarls, delivering a harsh slap to Kevin, Claire and Jessica’s heads. “And bullying Chuck into following you, just so you could say you had adult supervision!” She throws up her hands. “One of these days, you’re gonna get yourselves killed, and there’ll be nobody to blame but yourselves!”

Kevin sinks further into his chair, face stained red with embarrassment.

“But we’re tired of just sitting around, letting the dragons do whatever they want to us,” protests Claire, jerking upright in her chair from which she’d previously been slouching in. “Nobody does a thing around here to stop them!”

Linda stares Claire down for a few seconds, and then delivers another slap that sounds a lot harder than before.

“Ow!” Claire yelps, rubbing the back of her head.

“Those are the foolish words of a _child_ ,” Linda snarls. “And that’s what’s going to get you killed, Claire Novak. Mark my words.”

She turns away from the sullen group of teenagers to face Sam, John and Bobby.

“I would like to know,” she says in a controlled voice, “why you are here.”

Before John can even think of a response, alarms blare. He jumps, but Linda doesn’t react other than to close her eyes.

“What are those alarms for?” Bobby demands, his knuckles turning white as he clutches tight to his crossbow.

“A dragon,” says Claire excitedly. “A dragon has tripped the alarms. We’re finally gonna get to kill one of those bastards!”

“You,” says Linda firmly, jabbing a finger at Claire, “are not killing anything. You’re still a child.” Indignation flares in Claire’s eyes, but she throws herself back in her chair like a petulant child at the look Linda gives her. “But as for you two,” Linda continues, turning to John and Bobby. “This couldn’t have been more well-timed.”

“How d’you figure that?” Bobby asks.

“Because you’re going to help my clan kill it, and prove to us that you’re trustworthy.”

John, with a feral grin, replies, “No problem.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe they left us behind,” Claire snarls, when the door shuts behind the adults. They can hear the dragon’s screaming from here. “I mean, haven’t we already proved that we’re willing hunters?”

“We haven’t been formally trained, though,” says Kevin dully. “You know my mum won’t let us go out there without it.”

“You guys have to be formally trained?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” says Jessica. “A bunch of hunters come and give us lessons in all sorts of things. Four months later, we ‘graduate’ and become hunters ourselves.” She frowns, canting her head. “Isn’t that how it worked where you came from?”

Sam shakes his head minutely. Dean had been trained by John only, and look how that turned out. Most people in his city weren’t formally trained, though; they learned on the go. Maybe that’s why there was a higher death rate. Sam had never thought to question any of it before.

“Weird,” mutters Jessica. “Linda Tran’s very strict when it comes to who can become hunters and who can’t. She’s the one who came up with the whole system—and she founded the clan too. Didn’t take long for people to flock to her and flourish under her system. She’s incredibly smart.”

“Can we focus on the most important thing here, please?” Claire snaps. “The action is right outside our front door and we’re stuck here, unable to help.” She stands, fists clenched. “I’m going out there.”

Jessica leaps to her feet as Claire storms past. “You know we’re not allowed!”

“I never said I was gonna try and help them kill the beast,” Claire says. “I’m gonna watch. Stop being such a goody-two-shoes, Jessica. You’ll never be a hunter with that kind of kiss-up attitude.”

She pulls open the door, but pauses before she steps out. “If any of you are brave enough, come follow me. We’ll catch the whole show if we go now.”

As she leaves, Kevin and Jessica share an exasperated look, but they both follow her. Glancing at Chuck, Sam finds that he’s trying to curl himself up into the smallest ball possible. Coward, indeed.

“Sam!” calls Jessica. “You coming, or what?”

Sam goes.

Claire finds a spot for them to hide behind a pile of broken wheelbarrows, and from their vantage point they can see the whole thing.

The dragon in question is not that large—not in comparison to some of the ones John’s told him about, Sam thinks, watching as the dragon screams and roars, trying to free itself from the net that pins it to the ground. It must be little more than a baby.

John works on holding down the net with a bunch of other hunters, grimacing at the effort. Meanwhile, Bobby keeps his crossbow trained on the dragon, standing back at a safer distance. The dragon is as good as dead.

“What a stupid thing!” someone crows, from the cluster of hunters that are working to keep the edges of the net secured. “Coming here all alone—thought we’d just lie down and die, you ugly fuck?”

The dragon tries to flare its wings, but there’s not enough room for it. It screams again. Sam wonders why it’s not breathing fire. Is it incapable at that age? But whatever, better for them if it doesn’t know how.

Linda Tran walks up to the scene, cool, calm and collected. A man follows at her heels, fingering a sword tied to his belt with a hungry expression on his face.

“This is what happens,” says Linda loudly, “when a beast walks into our territory. We will cower no more under their reign. We will take back the freedom that they stole from us, and become the most feared predator there ever was.”

“Yeah!” the hunters shout, punching their fists into the air.

“Wish I could be the one to kill it,” Claire mutters savagely, as the man pulls out a Kazhakr and steps up to the dragon, completely uncaring to the way it lashes around. “The whole lot of them deserve it, the evil bastards.”

Sam looks at her. There’s a fire burning in her eyes, yes, but he also sees … loss. Grief. Turning back, Sam figures he’s not the only one who has lost someone to the dragons.

“This is true justice,” Linda continues. “We will kill these beasts and consume them, and they’ll know within their hearts that we have won. They will die like our fallen brethren, one by one, until they are no more.”

“Die, you motherfucker!” someone screeches.

Linda Tran looks at the man and inclines her head. The man hefts the Kazhakr above his head, point downward. He lets it hang there until the dragon stops writhing and takes notice. It lets out a pathetic squeal, as if begging for its life. For a brief flash, Sam feels … pity for it. He banishes that feeling just as quickly as it came, angry with himself. That vermin is in league with the dragon that killed Dean, it doesn’t deserve pity. They all deserve to die.

The man lets out a wild yell, and brings the sword down, stabbing the dragon through the throat. It screams, twitches, and then dies.

“That was almost too easy! Didn’t even break a sweat.” Whoever said that is met with raucous cheers and laughter.

“Who volunteers to skin the damn thing?”

Before anyone can answer, they’re met with a blood-curdling scream. A dragon—much larger, much more fearsome—soars above the trees, heading straight toward them. And Sam’s paralysed with fear as he realises.

A mother has just come to avenge her dead child.

This is far from over.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s bored out of his mind. There’s nothing to do here! Is he supposed to lie on his back the whole time and stare at the damn ceiling?

“Caaaas! I’m bored!” he shouts.

Shooting him an irritated look, Castiel says, “And what am I supposed to do about that?” He’s lying on the floor, opting for his human form when he’d chosen his dragon form out of spite for the past two days to escape Dean’s whining.

“You didn’t think I’d need entertainment? What the hell do you do here all the time?”

“We have books, Dean. Read them.”

“Already have, man.” Twice over, actually, which is impressive considering it has only been a week. And there’s only so many times you can read the same books over and over again without getting tired of them. “C’mon, can’t you get some more?”

Castiel sighs heavily. “If I did, would you shut up?”

“For a few hours, maybe. Depends on how many you get.”

“Fine.” Castiel pushes himself up to his feet. “Fine, I’ll try and get some more books. And you better appreciate it! Because I won’t be going back for more for at least another few weeks, so make do with what you’re given.”

Dean grins winningly. “You’re the best, Cas.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Little does he know that when he reaches the town, the world will once again be plunged into chaos.


End file.
